The tourists listen and then drop coins that will provide him with food and a shelter for the next night into the leather-covered case. It is all he requires.

How long he's been there, playing that lap harp with burn-scarred hands and singing songs that make the tourists gather round to listen over and over again, nobody else in the sleepy little seaside town remembers.

He rarely speaks to anyone, but when he does, his voice is sweet and rich. "Mac" they call him - sometimes "damned hippy" because of his hair.